Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[StrawBarrel]

IV seems like the sensible choice. Having Guardsmen around when you're dealing with Guardsmen is always good.

+1 to this.

+1

[Cheesecake]

+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+
The Emperor will not judge you by your medals and diplomas, but by your scars.

"Sergeant Rogal, m'lady, at your service." A bear of a man in the flak armor of the Guard salutes.

He stands like a fat tower, with a face of weathered stone. His chest, like a bulwark, displays no medals; it is bare and austere, with only the aquila and the heraldry of the 56th Golgothan Mechanized. A crater gouged where his left eye once was is covered by an augmetic implant, with the glow of hell-fire.

"Orders, m'lady?" he asks, voice like the crashing of an iron gate.

You relay your mission to the sergeant, and his flaming eye burns brighter when the renegades are mentioned. He salutes once more, leaving for the cult barracks to rouse his men.

As for yourself, you prepare in the sacred armorium, where the red giant tech-priest splashes sacred unguents on the revered machines. You take with you your explosives: vials of blessed promethium, grenades of all shapes and sizes, and melta-bombs. You arm yourself with a laspistol and an armored bodyglove.

Acceptably prepared, you go to the loading bay. Sergeant Rogal and his squad salute before you, oaths of faith sealed on their flak. You nod back. Behind them is an Arvus Lighter, a transport vessel lent to the death cult by the Imperial Navy.

With a silent prayer, you board the shuttle and prepare descent.

----

Like reversed rain, autocannon fire bears down on the Arvus Lighter. The pilot and his servitors fight with every ounce of skill and instinct, and with the Emperor's blessing and a dying Machine Spirit, you land in almost one piece. The servitors had short-circuited, and the pilot dead from exhaustion.

Sergeant Rogal blesses the poor pilot, promising to bury him later. You and your men give the sign of the aquila and begin your march.

The renegade fortress stands black and menacing in the distance. Anti-air autocannons scour the skies, searching for prey to shoot down. The bellicose bellow of heavy bolters blots out almost every sound, and loyalist Guardsmen die by droves, brought down by their black-hearted brethren.

According to the sergeant's augmetic eye, he sees three entrances: the main gate, where the brunt of the loyalist assault takes place; the walls, where one could scale them or blow them down; and the sewers, though only you could easily manoeuvre, and more importantly fight, in the claustrophobic tunnels.

What do you do?

[Harry Baldman]

Well, if you're going to blow shit up, better start from the bottom. The sewers it is! Engage in some preliminary just-in-case explosives planting down there while you're at it.

[crazyabe]

Well, if you're going to blow shit up, better start from the bottom. The sewers it is! Engage in some preliminary just-in-case explosives planting down there while you're at it.

+1

[StrawBarrel]

Well, if you're going to blow shit up, better start from the bottom. The sewers it is! Engage in some preliminary just-in-case explosives planting down there while you're at it.

+1

+1

[Cheesecake]

+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+
He who seeks glory finds death. He who seeks death finds glory.

With a clipped command, you order your squad to go into a wide formation. You order them to advance, the fortress' spotlights missing your scurrying forms. The men, themselves having survived the taxing Salem Crusade, are one with their wargear, bearing them with ease and making no noise.

The eleven of you arrive at the wall's base, planting your backs on the grimy, grey stone. The soft gush of the sewer, and the stifling stink, emanate from a pitiful hole bored into its side. You give the order to enter.

Charges are planted in the mawing entrance of the tight tunnel. Prayers to the Omnissiah are said, and lullabies to soothe the charges' choler are sung. At every other weakpoint, you repeat.

The trudge through the sludge is ponderous, the stink choking, and the cold biting. No complaint is made. Through the grace of your extensive training, finding your footing in the treacherous muck is nearly trivial. The men, however, don't fare as well.

Their flak and wargear bog them down, and more than once a trooper has nearly slid, caught by a comrade in the nick of time. With great effort, the men try to stay silent, but every step makes a splash like a tsunami, and every breath as loud as a hurricane. The sewer echoes unnaturally, mutating every whisper into a scream.

Something has noticed all the ruckus. Numerous things, in fact.

With eyes aglow from the light reflected from the entrance, the abominations slither and crawl on the walls. Tongues too long loll from their gaping jaws. Webbed fingers twitch with anticipation.

Sergeant Rogal and his men await your order. Do you tell them to fire their lasguns, where the light and the crack of las can be seen and heard? Do you tell them to engage in melee, their combat blades against the mutants' claws? What do you do?

[Kashyyk]

Open fire. The traitors are either in league with these beasts and will now know of our presence, or fight against them as well, and may mistake us for their own.

[StrawBarrel]

Open fire. The traitors are either in league with these beasts and will now know of our presence, or fight against them as well, and may mistake us for their own.

+

[Harry Baldman]

Are they actually attacking, though? They could be perfectly friendly sewer abominations for all we know. Or at least ones that eat much smaller things than we do for the most part.

If they are, however,

Open fire. The traitors are either in league with these beasts and will now know of our presence, or fight against them as well, and may mistake us for their own.

[Funk]

Are they actually attacking, though? They could be perfectly friendly sewer abominations for all we know. Or at least ones that eat much smaller things than we do for the most part.

If they are, however,

Open fire. The traitors are either in league with these beasts and will now know of our presence, or fight against them as well, and may mistake us for their own.

+1

[Cheesecake]

+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+
The impurity of body is kin to the impurity of mind. Both descend from an impurity of the soul.

In clipped battle-cant, you order Rogal and his men to fire all weapons. Las lights up the tunnel, illuminating the hidden horrors in the dark. The brightness blinds the bestial brutes, unaccustomed to the unforgiving lasfire.

A good fifteen mutants crash into the sewer waters. Small, smouldering impact-holes billow the smoke of charred flesh. The remaining mutants bull forward, maws frothing, their movements unnervingly silent. The las-light glints off of their razor-like talons, red like hellfire. Within seconds, they sweep over you like a thunderous gale of claw and fang.

Yet, your men are ready. You heard that the Hive World Golgotha is a cesspool of mutation, and these Golgothans guardsmen feel right at home in the tight, dark space against a horde of the Emperor's unwanted.

Five mutants are brought down with fluid strokes of their combat blades. One is hurled against a wall by the sergeant, stabbed, and finished off with a laspistol. Three more go down with bashed-in heads.

The rest flee.

As if routine, the men dust their flak off and await your go-ahead. Giving it, you press on down the dark tunnel. You reach a ladder leading into one of the fortress' maintenance chambers. Easily, you bypass the security and silence a maintainer scribe.

From your schematics, your targets could be to bomb the war-room, taking out their officers. Or, you could devastate their vitae life-support, ruining their food, fouling their air, and blighting their water. Finally, you could bomb their armorium, leaving their defenders defenceless.

All have their upsides, as well as downsides. Killing their ringleaders would leave the snake without it's head, and also without scapegoats for your superiors to punish. Destroying their vitae life-support would render this fortress all but useless - you can't defend a position where your own air is toxic. Finally, destroying their armorium is a great blasphemy to the Machine Cult, as well as depriving the Imperium of its stolen arms.

As well, you can order your team to safeguard you, or to perform other duties elsewhere.

[Digital Hellhound]

Bomb their officers. There's no need to have scapegoats to punish - every single of these traitors can only expect execution or servitordom anyway.

Keep your team close. Splitting up will only reduce your killing power.

[StrawBarrel]

Bomb their officers. There's no need to have scapegoats to punish - every single of these traitors can only expect execution or servitordom anyway.

Keep your team close. Splitting up will only reduce your killing power.

+1